The Visit
by gobbysmiles
Summary: I just wondered who Sam Levy was, and what might have happened in that little reference in Chapter 15. Might not be the best thing I ever wrote, but I just had a whack at it. Reviews would be nice. Criticism's good though obv I'd prefer a few nice things


Hannah Brady 11D

**THE VISIT**

The room wasn't modest, but it was certainly not opulent. The walls, curving to accommodate a small bay window, were embroidered with hundreds of tiny faint flowers, their thin, elegant stalks barely visible against the magnolia background. In front of the window stood an old table covered in a white linen tablecloth, its worn wooden legs peeking out underneath. It didn't match the shiny polished floorboards and the chairs were visibly newer, but somehow the table had a certain charm. It held its own against the rest of the furniture: a dusty wine cabinet; two handmade intricately-carved armchairs; a perhaps overly splendid gold chandelier. The chandelier was not lit, however, and the night was illuminated by two silver candlesticks in the centre of the table surrounded by food. Cold wind whistled down the chimney, but despite the wintry chill, the diners at the table barely noticed. The father sat at the head of the table, telling stories to his two children and laughing at his own jokes. To his left sat a visitor, who had left his coat and a brown envelope on an armchair. There was no mother - she was long since gone - but there was an old uncle, although he seemed perhaps withdrawn from the fast-paced conversation.

At nine o' clock and twenty-three minutes exactly, when the sky had darkened to pitch black and the stars shone their most brightly in the November sky, there was a loud knock on the door.

The father rose from the table, walked over to the window and peeked cautiously behind the heavy curtains. Immediately he tensed and the visitor followed him. He looked onto the front porch and then at his host. Together they walked out of the room, closing the door behind them so the children and the old man would not follow. The father unlocked the front door and opened it confidently, feigning bravery.

There were seven men, all cloaked in white cotton. Matching masks covered their faces, the huge sheets tapering into a tall cone at the top with only two slits for eyes so they could see; all seven men were anonymous, even wearing white gloves. Despite such ominous regalia, it was the large circles on their left breasts, bright red with a white cross, which intimidated the father the most.

"Sam Levy," the first of the men, the obvious leader, addressed the father, "we thought it was time we might have a little chat about all this land you've been keeping from us Maycomb folk."

The father leaned on the doorpost, crossing one leg over the other, "I'm just as much Maycomb folk as you are, Mr Sampson. Now if you'd like to walk away from my home, I'd be just as happy to see your nice lady-wife tomorrow evening and give her your Sunday best all repaired."

The first man tensed, puffing his chest up in anger whilst his followers looked at each-other, confused as to how Sam Levy managed to recognise their leader.

"You see, Sam, I've heard that you've been keeping in touch with some of the niggers in this town."

"They're mighty fine people, John, and I'm certainly accustomed to a little of their crackling bread now and then."

"See?" Another of the men piped up, stepping forward so he was inches away from Sam's face, "this _Yid_ is no better than those dirty Negroes. He's just stolen more of our money."

He spat on Sam's shoes and clutched the little golden box on the right side of the doorpost, ripped it off forcefully, and threw it on the floor.

"See what your so called 'G-d' makes of that."

Samuel bent down slowly and picked the mezuzah off the floor and kissed it softly, never taking his eyes off the Klan.

"My G-d looks after me alright, don't you worry."

The hooded men ignored him, shoving past Sam into his house. Sam's visitor stepped forward too, standing tall behind him.

"Ah!" Another of the white group spoke now, "it's the other nigger lover, Mr Atticus!"

"I'd rather be a lover than a White Camelia, Sir."

Now they rounded on Sam again, spreading out in his hallway.

"So Levy," Sampson spoke up again, "what's this about you forcing your old uncle into Maycomb? We heard he don't even speak English."

"Neither did my great-great-granddaddy, and you ain't never had a problem with him bringing money to Maycomb in the day. I distinctly remember y'all saying just the other day that his shop brought the greatest trade your families had seen in decades."

"Shut your mouth, Yid," Sampson pointed his finger right in Sam's chest, "I want you and that devil Pole of yours out of this house. And you sir," he turned to Atticus, "will not help this worm wiggle his way into America anymore."

"I am staying in this house as long as I sew the cloths on your back. You want to know how I recognise you, Mr Sampson?" Samuel signalled for the men to leave his house, holding the door open so they would leave, "I remember every single garment I make, and that cotton is pretty darn good. I even made my tablecloth out of it."

Sampson signalled for the others to leave the house, waiting until they had all filed out until he spoke to Sam, "I expect my suit Saturday evening then."

Atticus and Samuel watched them leave. The group almost looked ridiculous, like a group of over-grown kids dressed up for Halloween. Sam closed the door, still holding the box.

"I'll have to put this back up in the morning."

Atticus prepared himself to leave, putting on his old brown hat.

"You're a brave man, Mr Levy."

"I wouldn't say brave. I made those outfits, and I knew exactly what I was making. Maybe I'm not such a nigger lover after all."

Atticus rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, pausing for a second.

"I'll see you again on Sunday."

"Don't you forget that christening gown I sewed you for Jeremy."

"Got it, sir."

Atticus held up the package which Sam had wrapped for him, the collection of which had caused them to start discussing Joseph's American citizenship in the shop, overheard by Mrs Sampson.

"Goodnight Atticus."

"Night, Sam."

Again, Sam followed the fading footsteps of his visitor, although this time he was left with a somewhat more amicable feeling.

Closing the door behind him, Samuel walked across the hall and up the stairs, calling to his children and uncle that he wouldn't be joining them for dessert.

He might have overcome Mr Sampson and his White Camelias for one night, but there was certainly no cause for celebration.


End file.
